The Last Inauguration

On this maudlin Monday, mortals, my mind bends toward a memory of the first (& last) time I presided over an INAUGURATION. Ignore the fascist farce in Washington, & read on:

Some centuries ago, I found myself on loan to a troubled land. Long had they suffered under their kings, emperors, chairmen, & e’en one particularly malicious mayor. The crown-holder recently suffered an unexpected explosion—an especially rare fate, as they had no bombs nor guns. I suspected an aggrieved archmage—but frankly, I expended little effort in solving the murder. A ceremonial sorcerer was I, not a detective.

The villagers eventually decided that their ruler had simply angered the gods—a classic explanation, applicable to nearly anything. But, they also decided, that unless a new monarch took up the crown, the gods would further punish them. After years of taxation, exploitation, violation, by their kings & dukes & jarls, these folk feared their gods the most? As the ceremonial sorcerer, it fell to me to select & inaugurate the new crown-grabber.

I felt pity for them; clearly, their woes sat atop the throne, not the heavens. Why did they have a king, anyway? & why would they want another? Their archons caused suffering, but they demanded one; I wished to free them, but could not ignore their custom. I could not comprehend—but inspiration struck, like lightning!

I summoned the locals to the castle, for a most sanctified inauguration ceremony. I spake their holy words, & performed the ancient rites, & pulled the purple curtain away from the throne to reveal: “THE GOOD KING.” A skeleton, borrowed from the grave of their most pious ruler—a monarch who, by the by, sold half of them into slavery & taxed the other half for the privilege. I explained that the holiness of the bones would please the gods, & pointed out that their local custom had no rule against a skeleton serving as king. After some mild harrumphing, & one half-serious attempt at a duel, the villagers decided to try life without an archon.

This way, ye see, they would have a king, but one who could not hurt them. A purely ceremonial ruler, a perfect figurehead. In the years that followed, the town prospered. Eventually, they forgot they had a king, as rust ate his crown & mold took his throne. Happiness reigned!—until the horrid plague of 1601 which consumed them all. But before that, my goodness, they FLOURISHED.

I regret that thy current inauguration were not in my hands, mortals. I suspect four years of a skeleton behind the Resolute Desk would provide much relief. Alas—onward we trudge, ‘til the skelevolution cometh.

Thank ye for reading, mortals! & thank ye to all who share our missives with others outside the coven, & of course we curtsy with thanks especial to the extra-generous mortals who can & do support our works directly here in the Scriptorium!

I shall write ye Wednesday with EXCITING NEWS about this week’s episode, & some fresh art! ‘TIl then—be safe, be well, & long live the only Good King…

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Writer, Augur